Make It Stop
by Sari Dark
Summary: What happens when Dean can't take it anymore? WARNING: self-harm, read at your own discretion.


AN: Major angst warning and a warning for self-harm. Also, I wrote this awhile back when I was really depressed…this is how I vented my pain. Now I have _#AlwaysKeepFighting_. Thank you Jared.

He couldn't take it anymore. No matter how strong they thought he was, he couldn't do this anymore. He'd witnessed his brother's murder, and had spiraled out of control in grief. He'd been to Hell and come out the other side somehow, but not without profound scars. He had drunk himself to oblivion on several occasions even though it sometimes just made things worse. He'd even made some questionable decisions and trusted the wrong people resulting in the deaths of those closest to him. But out of all of it, this was the worst. He had crossed the line this time; one that you can never come back from. He can't face them after what he's done; not this time. He sits on the floor in his boxers beside his bed, legs pulled up to his chest and silent tears streaming down his face, the shock of the events of only a few hours ago having faded to what feels like a sort of clarity. He has to end this himself. No one else would. Even though _he_ had promised to kill him if it got this far, deep inside he knew that _he_ never would, _he_ couldn't. He looks at the knife lying on the floor next to him. He had chosen this one over all the other weapons in their extensive arsenal because they used it the least. He knew that his brother would never use the weapon again after what he was about to do. He slides his hand across the floor, fingers slowly closing around the handle of the knife, his actions slow and purposeful. He drags it towards himself. It feels too heavy to lift. He just stares at it a moment before lifting it to his calf and drawing it across his skin. He hardly feels it, not even the slick blood that oozes down his ankle and coats his foot. He cuts again, hoping that this time he will feel it. He deserves pain. He has always deserved pain, but he still can't feel it so he keeps on cutting, over and over again. Tears stream down his face in frustration and in desperation to feel _something, anything,_ but he can't. He chucks the knife across the room in frustration and throws his head back on his bed, hands pulling at his hair, smearing it with blood. He lets out a guttural sound like a wounded animal and then starts to sob. He doesn't care if anyone hears him now.

"Just make it stop." He breathes between sobs.

He sobs even harder, unable to stop and not caring.

"Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! Just…make it stop." He repeats over and over, screaming one moment and whimpering the next.

He shoves his face to his knees and viciously yanks at his hair, not caring as tufts of blood-coated hair float to the floor.

"Dean?" comes a concerned voice from the other side of his bedroom door. "Dean, talk to me man."

Sam jiggles the doorknob, but it's locked.

"Dean." He says more urgently.

No response, just more of the same.

"Dean!" he shouts, panic entering his voice as he pounds on the door, with no acknowledgement from the man within.

When Dean falls quiet, fear enters his voice.

"Dean!" he shouts again, slamming his shoulder into the door, desperately trying to bust it open, fearing something has happened, or worse yet, that his brother has done something.

Dean just sits and sobs quietly into his knees as the pounding intensifies, his tears flowing down his legs and mixing with the blood from his leg on the floor and soaking into his boxers. With a crash the door finally slams open, but Dean doesn't even flinch.

To say he is shocked by what he sees when he finally breaks down the door of Dean's room is an understatement. Dean is shaking violently and sobbing so hard that he's close to hyperventilating, and he's sitting in a pool of his own blood and hair. Dean's fingers are still yanking at his short spikes and he starts to rock back and forth as if trying to comfort himself. Dean doesn't acknowledge him at all; and that is what scares Sam the most. He rushes to his brother's side in a few long strides and squats down next to him, not caring about getting blood on himself.

"Dean! Dean! Hey man. Look at me!" He pleads, but Dean doesn't show any sign of recognition, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes glazed over.

Sam cautiously puts his hand on Dean's shoulder, not sure how his brother will react to the contact. Dean's breath hitches at the touch and he starts begging again.

"Make it stop, make it stop, I just want it to stop…"

Sam isn't sure what to do at first, but quickly pulls off his over-shirt and presses it to Dean's still-bleeding wound, the only reaction from Dean a slight whimper interrupting his mantra before he continues as if nothing happened. He ties off the shirt and then sits next to his brother and pulls him to his chest and holds him tight as he starts his own mantra of "Everything's going to be okay Dean, everything's going to be alright."

They sit that way for a while. Sam isn't surprised to realize that he had started to cry as well at some point. His t-shirt is soaked through with his brother's tears and his jeans are soaked in his brother's blood. He squeezes his brother closer to his chest as Dean's breathing evens out and Dean falls asleep in his little brother's arms.

"Us Winchesters never seem to catch a break, do we." Sam muses, rubbing soft circles on his brother's back.

He checks Dean's wound and is pleased to find it has stopped bleeding. Unfortunately things are far from over. This had been a long time coming and both of them knew that. The life they live takes its toll. In some ways Sam is relieved that Dean's not holding everything in anymore, but in others, he is well and truly scared for his brother. It is not often that the older Winchester shows this sort of emotion in front of his younger brother. It had sort of always been Dean's 'job' to protect Sam; but this time Sam needs to protect Dean, and it isn't going to be easy.

Sam pulls out his phone and presses 3 on speed-dial, not caring that his hands are covered in blood.

"Hey, Cas…I need you in Dean's room…" is all he can manage before his voice starts to waver, "an-and bring the first-aid kit." He hangs up before the angel can respond.

Cas rushes in the room a moment later, the oversized first-aid kit in hand. He stops abruptly when he catches sight of them.

"Who did this?" He demands, looking around for an enemy to smite.

Sam just raises his tear streaked face and tries not to sob. That's when Cas realizes what's happened here. There's no monster or demon or angel to smite; only internal turmoil and pain from living a difficult and unforgiving life. Cas puts down the first-aid kit and takes off his trench coat, draping it over the foot of Dean's bed, before kneeling in front of them. Without speaking, Sam and Cas manage to clean and bandage Dean's wound. The older Winchester wakes up while they're cleaning it, but no one says anything and he doesn't move from Sam's embrace. He just stares across the room at the knife lying on the floor, completely drained.

Eventually Sam breaks the silence.

"Dean?" he asks softly.

He doesn't respond, doesn't want to talk.

"Dean…"

He leans into his brother. He just needs to feel his brother's warmth; to know he is there.

"Dean, I love you." Sam says, hugging him close. "You know that, right? I love you."

Silent tears run down his face.


End file.
